Wrath of the Gods
by Regal Panther
Summary: Crazy!Canada "Thou have called down upon thy heads the wrath of the gods. Thy people shall eat their own flesh. Thou shalt be plagued by nightmares come alive. And the dead shall walk amongst thee."
1. Flesh

This is what I imagine to be the inner dialogue (mostly) of someone who has completely lost their sanity, their ability to reason.

Quick info: Matthew has lost it, and in his mind he's playing a bunch of memories, meshed together like puzzle pieces that don't fit together, like a movie.

By the way, this is one of my first attempts at trying to write insanity and "horror". I'd love some advice or constructive criticism.

And the thing in the summary was just something I wrote. Actually, it inspired this after I wrote it. I have no idea _why_ I wrote it... but that's irrelevant. Second part, Nightmare come alive, will be up soon. It's a lot shorter.

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><p><span>Flesh<span>

_Oh God oh God oh God_.

The screams. He could hear them in his ears, piercing his skull. The blood, he could taste in on his tongue, he could smell it and the burning flesh and _oh God why was this happening?_

Another scream tore from his raw, torn throat, blood and spittle spraying out over the body laid out before him. He didn't recognize it - couldn't without the face, without the _head_ oh God where was the _head,_ where did he throw it, why did he take it off _why was this happening. _He was curled in on himself, trying to block out the fire and the pain, but it wasn't working because people were still screaming and bleeding and trying to run and hide but they couldn't and _God it hurt_. He was rocking back and forth, like a child in the cradle, but his mother wasn't there, hadn't been for years, centuries, so long. The hands clenched in his hair, slowing ripping it out, making his scalp bleed, they were covered in blood, his own, someone else's, he didn't know where it came from, only that it was there.

No matter what he did, his hands were dripping blood. He washed them, but the blood kept coming, welling up from his knuckle, but not his fingers because three of them were missing, he couldn't find them, where could they have run off to? Where was that woman's head, anyway? Did they run off together? Stupid young couples, always eloping, it never worked, they always found out too much about the other and hated each other and _oh God pain_.

Another scream tore itself from his lungs, his flesh, as though something were trying to escape. Was there something in his chest? It felt like it. Why did it hurt? What had he done? Why did it hurt, he wanted it to stop, he wanted it to go away _go away go away go away._ Bloody, bitten hands crawled their way down his face, his neck, to his chest like demented, twitching spiders, counting his ribs as they pressed hard enough to bruise until they reached the last one. Clawed fingers tore at his sweater, his shirt, reaching for the skin, for the muscle, for the bone, for the thing in his chest because it was hurting him and he didn't want it to hurt anymore.

He didn't like pain, it hurt, he didn't like hurt, it burned and fire wasn't good because it hurt and hurt burned, and it was painful and pain wasn't good because it hurt, and it burned and he didn't like it because it was painful, and it hurt and burned and he didn't like it because it hurt and pain wasn't nice because it burned and he didn't like being burned because it hurt and _what was that, I heard it, it followed me._

In the kitchen? No, the kitchen wasn't there anymore, it was all turned to rubble and smashed so it wasn't in the kitchen. Where, where, where, he heard it, it followed him, where was it, he didn't like it. He didn't like pain either, but there was no more pain, because the thing in his chest that was hurting him was gone, he had thrown it away somewhere, and it was other there and oh look, so was the woman's head. So where did his fingers go? No, wait, the pain didn't belong in the corner, it looked so tasty. He wanted it again. He didn't want it to hurt, but he wanted the pain, the lovely, delicious painful thing that only hurt him when it was in his chest, making so much noise screaming and clawing and crying that it hurt him, because it was hurt too and didn't want to be in pain alone.

He crawled, he didn't walk because his leg had tried to dance, but the rest of him didn't and it twisted and now it was numb, so he crawled to where he had thrown the painful thing and settled against the wall, ignoring it even though it had followed him, ignoring it because he had the painful thing in his hands and it was so lovely and looked so good. Like a steak. He liked steak. It was good, so he liked it because it was so good and went well with almost anything, so it was good, and he liked it because it was good so it was good and he liked it.

And this beautiful painful thing was good too, not good in his chest, but good on his tongue, down his throat, some on his face because it was messy like tomato sauce or candied apples, but it was so damn good _so good so good, he wanted more,_ but there was no more, it was all gone now. Where did it go? Did it run away with his fingers? Did they kidnap it? Maybe, some of the painful stuff was on his hands, so maybe they drugged it and ran off with it.

But where would they go? To Europe, across the ocean? No, they weren't welcome there. No one was. Well, maybe the Europeans were. Why not North Americans, too? They were all people. All the same, all the same inside with the same colours and textures and tastes and everything, and outside too, they all had skin and eyes and hair, unless they were cancer patients, then they didn't, where did the hair go on the cancer patients, anyway? Did it run away too? Did his fingers use it to tie up the delicious painful thing? How dare they! His fingers were supposed to obey him, but they didn't, they wouldn't move when he wanted them to so he bit them, and they tasted good so he bit them a few more times, and then there was something crunchy between his teeth and it was _so good, so good,_ but then his fingers were gone, and where did they go? Did they run off? Because he bit them? He wouldn't again, he promised. He wailed into their empty room, promises, promising not to bite them again, please come back, he needed them.

But they weren't coming back, because they ran away, they didn't like him. But it could hear him, it could hear his cries, so he bit down on his wrist to try and be quiet, quiet was good, it was nice and quiet, so it was nice and good because it was quiet, and quiet was good, and so was his wrist, so he bit it again, and he bit it again and he bit it again and it was good, but where was his hand? On the floor by his foot. He picked it up with his other hand, and it looked a bit like the tasty painful thing he had just lost, so he licked it and it was good too so he bit it and then it was gone. Where did it go? He wanted the tasty part again, but his hand was missing.

What was he supposed to use to eat now? His other hand? Maybe it tasted good too. He licked it, but it didn't taste good like his other hand did. He didn't like it, so he didn't bite it. His wrist was good to bite, though. He bit it and bit it and bit it until it was all gone, and the little crunchy parts were all gone and he kept biting, because his wrist was attached to his arm and it was good, and tasty, and he liked it, so he kept biting until he couldn't reach any higher, and he licked his other arm to see if it tasted good but it didn't, why didn't they taste the same, they were the same, made of the same, so shouldn't they taste the same? He licked his tasty army, and it was tasty, and he licked his other arm, and it wasn't, so he stopped licking it and kept licking the tasty one.

And he heard it downstairs, it was talking, there were more of it, what did they want? They couldn't have his arm, it was _his arm _and where was it, but it tasted so good, why couldn't he have more? He licked his other arm, but it wasn't tasty so he didn't lick it again. His knee could reach his face, maybe it was tasty, but his leg was all twisted because it tried to dance alone without his body and you weren't supposed to dance alone, it didn't work. It takes two to tango. Who said that? A lot of people. No, no, who said it first? I don't know. Why don't you know? Because you don't know. Who are you? Who am I? Yes, who are you? I don't know, who are you? I asked you first! No you didn't, you asked you first. Okay, fine, but who are you? Who am I?

"Oh God."

It was here, when did it get here, while he was talking to him? What was it? It looked like him. It had eyes and skin and hair, and it probably had bones and muscles and fat, too, but what was it?

"Mattie?"

What did it want, why was it there, what was it saying, he couldn't understand, why couldn't it speak like him?

"Mattie!"

He twitched, suddenly still, not rocking back and forth. It hurt, _too loud too loud too loud, silent, I want silent, why can't it be silent?_ But it was louder and louder and wouldn't silence and it was growing, it was getting bigger and squishing him against the floor, and he tasted something in his mouth and it tasted good so he bit, he bit again, he bit again, and his tongue was gone, where did it go, oh, why do all the tasty thing go missing right when he finds them, and-

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><p>This is where it goes to the second part, <span>Nightmare Come Alive<span>. You'll see why it cuts off so abruptly.

-Panther


	2. Nightmare Come Alive

Hoo boy, been a while since I posted the first chapter... honestly, I wasn't going to update until I got that second review, which kind of revitalized my hope that this is actually something worth reading.

So! On to writing the third and final part, which is "Dead Shall Walk".

I think.

Note: This chapter is basically Canada's nightmare becoming real, in the way that his mind stays broken and he's hallucinating that his fingers are gone, because in his nightmare he ate them, remember?

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><p><span>Nightmare Come Alive<span>

_"MATTIE!"_

He sat up with a jolt, hearing a scream, and suddenly he realized that _he_ was screaming. He was writhing, and jolting, and screaming bloody murder. His brother was shaking him, screaming his name over his own screams, crying and frightened and where were his fingers? He held up his hand to his face and blinked slowly.

"Al," he said quietly, suddenly very, very calm. It scared Alfred and Ludwig more than his previous fit. He was too calm, too quickly. What was going on? "Al, where are my fingers?" He looked up at his twin. "I can't find them, Al. I can't find my fingers. Where did they go...?" Glassy purple eyes, bloodshot from lack of sleep, stared at the stumps, then at his brother's terrified, horrified face, then back to the stumps.

"Mattie... your fingers?"

"I can't find them, Al. Where did they go?"

"Mattie, you're not missing any fingers."

"I can't find my fingers, Al," he continued slowly, eyes unfocused. "Why can't I find my fingers? Where are they?"

"Mattie, you're not missing any!" Alfred insisted, panicking at his brother's lack-luster questioning.

"Where are my fingers...? I can't find them, Al. Where did they go?"

"Mattie! Please, stop it, you're not missing any fingers, they're all right here, see?" Alfred yelled, taking his hands and shakily rubbing the bandages fingers of his cracked brother. "A little frostbitten, but you're fine, you just got caught out in a snowstorm and when I found you, you were out cold. But you're okay now, okay? You're not missing any damn fingers!" The man's face was desperate, haggard, and his eyes were wide with panic that kept growing as his brother cocked his head, his pale, thin face still blank.

The room was silent for a moment while Matthew inspected his hand, looking for his fingers. But he didn't see them. "Where are my fingers, Al?" he said again, in the same tone, with the same volume and distant inflection as before. His gaze remained focused on his hands. "I can't find them. Where did my fingers go, Al? I can't see them. Where are they? I can't find my fingers, Al, I can't see them. Where did they go?"

"... America, maybe ve should call ze doktor?" Ludwig asked anxiously, eyes flickering between the twins.

"... Yeah. Yeah, right, okay. Can you go get him? I'm going to stay with Mattie."

"... _Ja,_ I'll be right back."

Alfred heard the door shut, and tried one more time to rouse his brother from the waking nightmare in which he found himself trapped.

"Mattie, your fingers are on your hand," he tried quietly. His brother looked up and his eyes flashed with something like the energy they held before. Hopeful, Alfred gave him a hesitant smile and held up his pale hands. "See? Right here."

"... Alfred," the northern twin said quietly.

"Yeah, Mattie?" he replied quickly, desperate.

"Did they taste good?"

Matthew's hands were dropped onto the sheets.

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><p>What do you think? I added a bit at the end. I was originally gonna stop at "I can't find my fingers, Al, I can't see them. Where did they go?" but I decided to add a couple bites.<p> 


	3. Dead Shall Walk

Final piece of the puzzle!

Wait, puzzle? What puzzle?

Anyway, I don't like this one as much, but meh. Inspiration hit me upside the head and I was compelled to reply with this.

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><p><span>Dead Shall Walk<span>

Alfred ran out of the hospital after hearing multiple screams. Ludwig had followed after him, his hand against the pocket that held his handgun. "What's going on?" the American shouted, watching as a stampede of panicked hospital staff made its way into the building, flowing around him like a river. "Hey!" he tried again, grabbing the arm of a pale-faced doctor. "What's going on here?"

"They're getting back up!" he blubbered, clutching at his hair and crying openly. "They... they were dead! How can they...?"

"What?" Alfred and Ludwig shared a confused look, then he released the doctor and watched as he stumbled away, concerned for the poor man's heart. Then, he gestured to Ludwig and the two advanced through the quickly clearing hallways, down to the morgue where the bodies of the dead were stored in chilled containers. "You go first, I'll keep an eye out for straggling nurses." The Germanic nation nodded and drew his pistol, flicking the safety and bringing it up next to his face, ready to shoot.

They inched their way into the morgue, Alfred concentrating on the building as a whole, listening and watching for signs of living beings. Ludwig focused on the room they were entering, keeping his eyes peeled for the things the doctor had spoken of.

"I see nozing," he muttered over his shoulder. Alfred tapped him on the back, signalling that he had heard and wanted Ludwig to keep going. The shorter blonde nodded and swept into the morgue, pistol up. However, he lowered it in shock when he saw a small crowd of pale, still people in white sheets or completely naked, some bearing marks of autopsy. "America," he whispered. "Turn around."

"What?" The other blonde didn't move, still watching the hallways.

"Now!" This time, a bit louder. Alfred turned, then gasped sharply as he saw three of the people he had found near his brother, all dead when he had arrived. They, too, had been caught in the snowstorm, and his brother had only lived because of his status as a nation.

"Those three... they're dead," he said quietly, still in shock and he advanced towards them a few steps. "They... I found them. They were frozen stiff next to Mattie."

"Don't touch zem!" Ludwig barked as Alfred's hand reached for them. The American snapped out of his fugue and retreated again, standing next to Ludwig.

"What... they're just standing around," the younger man started. "What do they want? I mean, there has to be a reason for them to come back, like, ghosts or whatever they are."

"Thou have called down upon thy heads the wrath of the gods."

Both men spun around, Alfred raising his fists and Ludwig bringing his pistol up again. They lowered their weapons hastily when they saw Matthew, still carrying a haunted, empty look on his too-thin, pale face.

"... Mattie?" Alfred tried hesitantly.

"Thy people shall eat their own flesh."

"What?" Alfred grabbed his brother by the shoulders and gave him a solid shake. "Snap out of it, dude, this isn't funny."

"Thou shalt be plagued by nightmares come alive." Matthew didn't even seem to notice him.

"Matthew, seriously, stop it!" Alfred was panicking again, the state his brother was in leaking over to him with disconcerting ease. Ludwig watched uneasily, shifting. He felt an unknown presence in the room, and didn't doubt that it was the reason Matthew was acting so strange and Alfred was panicking so easily.

"And the dead shall walk amongst thee."

"The... dead?" Alfred froze, blue eyes wide with horror as he realized the implications of his brother's words. "The dead shall... walk among us?"

"Vat does he mean?" Ludwig asked quietly. Alfred turned to look at him, a defeated look in his eyes. As he spoke, the same glaze that covered Matthew's eyes crawled over his own.

"He means the dead will walk among us," he said plainly, quietly. He blinked slowly and went slack, his posture now identical to Matthew's.

"America?" Ludwig said cautiously, backing away. Unfortunately, the brothers blocked the doorway, so he couldn't escape easily. "Vat iz it?"

Both were silent.

"Alfred!" He tried the man's human name, to no avail. "_Scheisse,_ vat iz happening?"

"Germany?" he heard a worried voice call from the hallway. "Is that you I hear?"

"_Ja,_ I am in here!"

"Oh, for God's sake," the voice same, shoving the American twins out of the way. They stumbled a few steps and straightened up, staring straight ahead at the wall, just as the other people were doing. "I knew it, I knew it would touch them too..." the newcomer ranted quietly, brushing a hand through his messy hair. He had bags under his eyes and turned to face Ludwig, offering a strained smile. "There's something spreading through Canada," he started, waving towards the revived ones. "People who were dead are all popping back alive."

"How?" Ludwig demanded, still tense. "Why?"

"I... don't know. I'd reckon there was some kind of warning to it all, maybe a late one, but still..."

"_Ja,_ Canada zaid zomezink like zat just a moment ago." Ludwig eased out of his stance bit by bit, still regarding the other humans and nations warily. "He zaid zomezink like..." His German accent disappeared for a few moments as he imitated Matthew. "Thou have called down upon thy heads the wrath of the gods. Thy people shall eat their own flesh. Thou shalt be plagued by nightmares come alive. And the dead shall walk amongst thee."

Arthur stared at him with wide eyes, then let out a wordless cry of despair and clutched at his hair, falling to his knees. Ludwig started almost violently at this reaction, then fell next to Arthur and shook his shoulders. "England, vat iz it?"

No reply.

"... England?" he said cautiously, taking his hand back and shifting to a crouch. The man's head came up and his eyes and face were blank, exactly like those of the twins.

"The dead shall walk amongst thee," he intoned in a quiet, haunted voice. He remained still, staring straight ahead at nothing. Ludwig, near panic at this sudden, vicious infestation, took a deep breath and got to his feet. Judging that the zombie-like nations wouldn't be doing anything anytime soon, he made his way to the front of the hospital, passing doctors, nurses, and waiting patients who all wore the same empty look on pale faces, standing stock-still and staring straight ahead.

"Vat iz going on?" he muttered to himself, trying to get rid of the sudden silence. He exited the hospital and stopped. Small groups of people had formed on the streets - all wore the same look at the people in the hospital. There was no movement or sound. It was as though the world had stopped. Everywhere he looked, he saw humans staring straight ahead, a glazed look on their faces.

A noise broke him out of his reverie and a car crashed into a building somewhere nearby. He let out the shaky breath he had been unconsciously holding in and fumbled his cell phone out of his pocket. He dialled quickly and brought it to his ear with a shaking hand.

"_Hello, you've reached -"_

He hung up and tried another number.

"_Boujour, vous avez rejoindre -"_

Another number. The same result. He tried half a dozen others, trying to contact another nation, and finally reached Australia, who answered with a yell.

"'Ello? Who's there?"

"It'z Germany," was the swift reply. "Do you know vhat's going on?"

"No, I've got no clue, mate, people just started... stoppin', I 'unno why or who or anythin', but not everyone's gone crazy yet. It's just the immigrants, sons and daughters o' the immigrants. Everyone with Australian great-grandads and mums are fine, but the others... crikey, mate, what in blue hell's goin' on?"

"I... don't know. I zink it started vith Canada, then spread to America and now England... zey are all frozen, like... ze dead, except not. I don't... I can't..." He took another deep breath. "My bruzer haz not anzwered ze phone. Many have not. You are ze first to anzwer."

"Did you get any info at all?" came the desperate reply.

"Yez, but ven I told England he cried out and fell under ze zpell. I don't vant to repeat zat."

"Alright, but can ye tell me the gist of it?"

"_Ja... _Canada said zat ve have called down ze wrath of ze gods, or zome zuch zing... and zen he said zat people would eat zeir own... ah, bodies, and nightmares would become real, and zat the dead would walk with us." He prayed that changing the words would keep the strange zombie effect from reaching Australia. It did.

"What? That's fucked up." The phone crackled with a static-filled sigh. "Well, not much we can do until either the scientists or the witch doctors come up with something. Try to get Mattie, Alf and Artie into some kinda safe zone."

"_Ja,_ gut idea. You keep trying to contact ozer nationz, zee vat they have to zay."

"Right. Don't give in, Ludwig." Using the man's human name made the impact of his words fall hard.

"You as vell, Keith."

He hung up and took another look around at the desolation of a lifeless city.

It was horrifying.

It was heart-rending.

It was alien.

For once in his life, Ludwig didn't know what to do.


End file.
